Dibaxu
by Babel Barbara
Summary: Underneath the clothes, the dust and the sand they are just skin and ardent flesh. [Altaïr/Malik, collection of one-shoot]


**Fandom:** Assasins Creed

**Title:** You are my only word

**Warnings:** Sex scene. Curses. Mediavelish thing (rough times, fellas')

**Disclaimer:** All the Assassins Creed videogames are property of Ubisoft. I not claiming any right about it, neither I expect profits from my fanfiction.

**DIBAXU**

**I. You are my only word**

_eris_

_mi única avla_

_no se_

_tu nombri(1)_

_**Juan Gelman**_

He floats among silk cushions that smell like myrrh under the limpid night of Jerusalem. He sees the stars above his head, tangling between the climbers that cover the wooden ceiling of the bureau. He has taken off his boots and only keeps his pants on. He sinks in the cushions. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day. He will murder Talal and he will give one more step in the road to his redemption. He feels like he is falling. He opens his eyes again. For some reason he can't get to sleep, even though, he feels that his eyelids weight like lead. He turns around, trying to find a much more comfortable position. He wants to sleep. Among everything just to sleep. He think**s** that much of his discomfort must be caused by the presence of Malik in the bureau.

He already knew that his old brother was a _rafiq_, but he have never thought what would he feel when he'll meet him again. Malik, whom have been one of the best and more artful assassins was now condemn to do maps behind a counter because of his fault. He have lost a brother, yes, but the deaths, bury they are. They can't hurt no more and, with time, the wound of their lost eventually heals. But the arm… the arm would be there. Reminding him with his absence every time he tries to lift some heavy thing, every time an assassin enters through the door what he has been and what he is now.

He asks himself if Malik thinks of killing him while he sleeps. Allah knows he will do it without hesitation. To charge him blood with blood. He turns around again. It must be near midnight. He wants to sleep. Tomorrow he will execute Talal and will go back to Masyaf where Al-Mualin will greet him for his mission and he won't have to think in a buried Kadar, in an amputated Malik. Just one more day and… and a moan breaks the darkness of the night. Is like a match: a sudden shattering of light that dies in the wind. Altaïr sits in a jump. Under normal circumstances that moan wouldn't upset him. The problem is that is hot, he is in Jerusalem under the same roof as Malik and, Shaytan curse him, that moan sound inside the house, not outside. He stands up quickly, with the instinct gained over years and years of service and he stays in the most absolute silence. It sounds again. That moan, that soft warble and he is sure, total and absolutely sure, that it sound inside the house. He search among his clothes for the short blade and enters to bureau walking stealthily.

His feet don't sound in the ground, each step planned in advance. It's dark like a cave inside the assassin's bureau. He have noticed that Malik have the habit of put out the torches from a certain hour so he moves only by intuition. He searches for the stairs and go up to the second floor and he rests his back against the wall, ascending catlike thought the stairs. He feels the dust under his toes and tries to keep his breathing as low as he can. When he arrives to the hall in the second floor, he can see it. The only light comes from the _rafiq_'s room. Is a languid light, barely strong enough to mark him the way. A candle, he supposes. He stays there, standing, hearing how his ribs sound every time he breathes. Other moan resounds.

Is like doing a leap of faith. You don't know where you going to fall. You just jump and pray that down there's something that will catch your fall and prevent you to end up in pieces on the ground. Is something like that, thinks Altaïr, when he gives the first step into Malik's room. He gives that step and he prays for… He doesn't know for what he prays for. But he prays for something, for anything. He squeezes the blade in his hands and peeks into the room.

What he sees freezes his loins so much that he feel the blade slip thought his fingers but, in a moment of clarity, he manages to catch it in the flight and hide, taking a deep breath of heavy and humid air that leaves his throat burning. Malik is with someone. He didn't manage to distinguish the who, but is sure that was somebody, and, besides someone feminine. That long hazel hair and the soft waist can't cheat him. Something nests in his lower abdomen, like boiling oil. He grabs the blade again and peeks.

He was right. Is Malik. And a girl. In the room. With a candle. F-U-C-K-I-N-G. He just has to sharps his glance a little bit to deduce the identity of the girl. It's Rivqah. It can't be other one that Rivqah, that girls that seems to have been in the Jerusalem's bureau since before they. He don't really know how she got there (sometime he hear something about her mother dying like "collateral damage" in a mission and she became an orphan, but who knows) but he does know that Rivqah is the one in charge of keeping the bureau in order. She is the one who clean, cook and wash. And do way more other things, apparently.

She is on top of Malik and he can see how she is the one who carry the rhythm. She's giving him the back and he can only see her long hazel hair, almost touching her hips and her back, wide and white. Malik stand up a little and he presses against the wall but the only things Malik does is stroke her neck and kiss her. Rivqah's arms, which were in Malik's thighs until now, surround him in a tough clasp and her hips moves in a deeper, more animal cadence. Altaïr is not dumb. He knows what that means. When Malik let he fall and gives a groan of wounded animal, clutching Rivqah's hip Altaïr proves his suspicions right. She let herself drowse .three times more and finally gives a louder moan, squeezing the sheet between her fingers. Malik let go a puff that sound more like a laugh and slaps a little her rear. He takes a finger to his lips and whispers: _Shhh… Altaïr is sleeping down stairs… _

_Not really_, he thinks furious. Rivqah laughs softly and low, and lays her body next to Malik. She puts herself comfortable against Malik's side and cross her leg upon his hips. Altaïr sees how she plays with his hair and how she sinks her face in the corner of the neck. He supposed she tell him something, because Malik's nods and she expend a hand, looking for a blanket in the floor. She raised the blanket and convers them both. The milky nudity of Rivqah, contrasting with the olive skin of Malik, disappears under red dyed wool. Ella stretches her neck and blow the candle that die, melting everything into shadows.

Once upon a time, many moons ago, in other times, when Altaïr wasn't a simple novice and Rivqah was no longer that little girl, only bones and skin, and she started to developed soft curves of woman, Altaïr flirt with her. He talked about the wonder he will make her feel. How he will take her to the Paradise. Rivqah was barely a child, so much time since that warm day, and she didn't speak quite much. She has heard his coquetry in silence, how he speaks about her hazel hair, her sweet freckles. She has filled her vase with water and gave him a tired look from her gazelle's eyes.

"If you touch me, I will slice your throat. I know how to do it," she has told him before disappearing inside the house, to make the dinner.

She was fourteen –almost fifteen- years that afternoon. Now she will be around the sixteen and don't seem so crusty with Malik like she was with him. He turns around, strangling the handle of the short blade, which has got warm inside his hands. With Malik is fine, but not with him. It was probably the _rafiq _clothes what infatuated her. He goes down the stairs with no discretion in his steps. That they hear him. He really doesn't care. It was their fault in the first place. He goes out and the night of Jerusalem is balmy and has clear skies that you can't see under the wooden roof on the house's garden.

Something burns to Altaïr under his navel. A famished beast that growls and scratches. He let himself fall into the cushions and thinks about Rivqah's hips and that cadence of soft movements. He thinks in that roar of hunted animal that Malik let go _ad portas_ of the last painfully death rattle just before the orgasm. The beast growls for something and it demands blood and it demands flesh and it demands sweat. It has no name that thing, that bread will calm down the hunger that is consuming him. And that nameless, that not knowing what, the only thing that make is to infuriate him more.

* * *

**1: **_**you are/ my only word/ I don't know/ your name.**_** Poem number thirteen from the book "Dibaxu" (underneath) of the Argentinian poet Juan Gelman, published in 1994. The poems (a total of twenty-nine) are written not in Spanish but in Judeo-spanish a dialect talked by the jewish in Spain and Portugal before they were expelled in 1492. **

**Author Note: Sooo, this is it. This is not only my first Assassin's Creed fanfiction but also my first fic in English! English is not my mother tongue so it required several corrections and revision from both me and my boyfriend. Even though, if you find any mistake of any kind please just tell me and I'll correct it ASAP. I had a great time writing it and I do hope you enjoyed reading it. I'll probably keep posting more fics about Altaïr and Malik in this same fic since I love them as a couple, alone, or any form! **

**Thanks for reading! **

**Babel Barbara**


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